Good Result?
by princessozmaofoz
Summary: Innocent must determine whether a reckless decision made under the influence of loneliness and alcohol was-in fact-the right one. Warning for : implied sexual encounter.


Author's Note: So this piece is actually part of a larger post-canon scenario that I just don't have the time and patience to write. (Or the heart, since it's actually a giant angsty mess). But since it has recently become far safer to come out of the James/Jean shipping closet, I am sharing this much, much happier piece with you all. Basically what you need to know is that just before he left the force, James told Jean he was in love with her. At the time, she was too confused and shocked to know exactly what to do with this information, and even if her own feelings had been clearer, she would still have seen it as "too late." However, several months later-after her marriage has pretty much collapsed for good-Hathaway and Innocent meet up again. And this time things work out differently...

**Good Result?**

James Hathaway couldn't remember the last time he'd been this happy—or at least this particular brand of happy: this curious blend of perfect physical and emotional content. In fact, the considerable bodily satisfaction he'd felt during their coitus was almost an afterthought when he compared it to what he'd felt soon afterwards: the inexplicable sensation of strength and wholeness he'd experienced when Jean had rested her head on his bare chest, her body naturally curling in towards him as she fell asleep.

He'd waited so long for this—for _her—_and it had been had been more than worth the wait after all. Or maybe the wait—the knowledge that almost ten years of dreaming and longing and fantasizing hadn't been a waste of time—had been part of what had made it so wonderful.

He knew he needed to go to sleep soon, or he'd be sorry in the morning. But for now, he was content to lie awake and take in the wonder of the moment. She was far softer and far smoother than he'd ever dared to dream. She was also far smaller than he'd realized. He supposed it was because he'd always thought of her as intimidating and unattainable. Although, he was sure that her high heels had also made some difference in his perception. But now he saw her as she really was—almost a full foot shorter than him. And yet, she was still the perfect size, the perfect shape, the perfect texture, the perfect fit for his arms.

He suddenly caught sight of the enormous smile on Jean's sleeping face. She must've been having a pleasant dream. He wondered idly for a second if he might feature in her subconscious thoughts, but even he didn't, it was no matter. She was happy, and she was in his arms after long last. That much was clear; that much was perfect.

….

She was awakened by a loud ringing sound and the feeling of a stirring beside her. She sat up in bed, and in the dark, could just barely make out the lit-up mobile phone on the bedside table. She all-but-jumped as she felt lips brushing against her shoulder.

"It's mine. Hopefully, it won't take too long. Go back to sleep, Jean." James kissed her other shoulder before crawling out of bed, grabbing his mobile and going elsewhere to answer it.

Much as she wanted to follow his advice, she couldn't. Even if her mind hadn't been so preoccupied, her body would still have been too cold. During the earlier—she still hadn't decided on a term for what had transpired between herself and her former subordinate. "Sex" seemed too detached, "love-making" too involved, "intercourse" too stuffy, and any other euphemism that came to mind too vulgar.

Well, during the earlier physical intimacy, majority of the bedcovers had ended up on the floor. They hadn't bothered to replace them at the time, figuring the warmth of the summer evening and from each other's bodies would provide sufficient heat.

But now that the chilly, pre-dawn morning air had replaced the sweltering air of the night and now that James's body had been removed temporarily as a primary heat source, Jean found her skin breaking out into miniscule goose pimples. For a moment, she debated retrieving the blankets, but she eventually decided against it. Doing so would've required the effort of getting out of bed, however briefly.

Instead, she covered herself with the one remaining sheet, leaned back against the pillows, and contemplated the previous night's decision.

Did she regret it? She wasn't at all sure. It had been a reckless choice undoubtedly, one that she almost certainly wouldn't have made if she'd been thinking clearly—if a few glasses of wine and a renewed desire for companionship hadn't clouded her judgment. Yes, it had been a very, _very_ impulsive decision, but did that automatically make it a bad one?

She told herself she'd only kissed him out of curiosity, an abstract, inexplicable desire to see whether or not the feelings he'd confessed to her when he'd handed in his resignation months ago. But she knew this was only the excuse she'd put to it. Judging by the looks she frequently caught him giving her, she was already pretty sure his youthful attraction was still there.

No, she'd kissed him, because she needed to know if the feeling was mutual—if she was imagining the slight fluttering sometimes felt in her stomach upon catching him at one of those longing stares.

She hadn't imagined it. Not long after her lips met his, the fluttering had started up again. Only this time, it had tripled in intensity. And the surety had only increased with the second kiss, the one James had initiated, the one that had slightly shocked her with the fervent, unbridled passion on both sides.

Still kissing him had been one thing, as had questioning his attraction and her own. Going to bed with him was something else entirely.

This wasn't like her at all—and she had a feeling it wasn't like him either. Even when she'd been younger and her libido had been more active, she'd seldom given into baser instincts, and she'd certainly never done so this impulsively. Even when she drank, she usually kept her head. She could count on one hand (and not even a full hand at that) the number of people with whom she'd slept. And—this incident barred—she'd been in long-term, committed relationships with all of her sexual partners at the time of said liaisons. One-night-stands had been all-but out-of-the-question. _Until now apparently_.

But that was the real question weighing on her mind—wasn't it? _Had last night really been a one-night-stand after all?_

It wasn't from his perspective; she was sure of that. From what she understood about his feelings, they weren't the sort that would fade immediately after consummation, especially since they hadn't faded already.

But from her own perspective? Well, she couldn't deny that she'd greatly enjoyed the physical aspects of it—far more than she really wanted to admit. And there were other things she'd loved as well: the way he'd literally swept her off her feet and set her down lightly on the bed as if she were some heroine in a romance novel, the way he'd insisted upon finding out if she was ticklish and then had put that newfound knowledge to immediate use, even the way he said her boring, monosyllabic name as if it was something fascinating and exotic.

But despite all these things, she wasn't exactly in a hurry to sleep with him again. Though she certainly wasn't averse to the idea either. Maybe she just needed some more time to think about it, to weigh the pros and cons of such a course of action. And damn, maybe the problem was that she was scared, that she was genuinely frightened of letting herself care about someone again only to lose them soon after.

For this could all collapse easily. They were both so stubborn, so sure of themselves that there were bound to be a fair share of volatile fighting.

And then, there was the age difference. James was still a very youthful, very energetic thirty-something-year old, and Jean…well Jean was most decidedly on the wrong side of forty-five. James might call her "beautiful" now, but what little beauty she liked to think she had was rapidly fading. Her roots were dyed, her face starting to wrinkle, and it was only a matter of time before her body started to fail her in other ways. And even if that didn't turn him off, she doubted she'd be able to keep up with his rigorous, highly athletic style of lovemaking for much longer.

God, why was she even still thinking about sex with him? Hadn't she done enough of that already tonight? Of course, she had. Definitely…probably…maybe.

Well, who could blame her for it? Physically, it had been the furthest thing from unpleasant. And emotionally…

She couldn't remember the last time she'd felt so safe and so content—a real irony as she'd been doing something impossibly reckless at the time. But his arms had a real security about them; they'd made her feel comforted, protected, appreciated, desired, even—dare she say it?—_loved_. It had been far too long since she'd felt that way, and who in their right minds could honestly say they didn't want to feel that way again?

But what if it really was just as temporary as she was worried? What if….

Ah, but she was too cold to think after all. Shivering, she carefully crept out of bed, and bent back down to pick up the covers. She'd just straightened up when she felt arms circling around her waist.

"I thought I told you to go back to sleep," Hathaway scolded, with more than a hint of amusement in his voice.

"Well, I…I was cold."

"Well, you're doing yourself no favors standing out here starkers. Let me handle it." He grabbed her by the hand and then guided her back to the bed. After she'd lain down on it, he took the bedcovers from her, carefully wrapped them around her, and then crawled in beside her. "There, comfortable now?"

"Almost," she said, settling her head beside his heart again. "Your chest isn't exactly pillow-soft—you know."

"Yours is," Hathaway said, grinning wickedly and quickly rubbing a thumb across the chest in question before positioning his hand on the small of her back.

Jean rolled her eyes at him. "You still haven't lost your cheek, then—have you?"

"I never will. I guess we'll just have to think of a fitting way for you to punish me." He waggled his eyebrows suggestively.

"Yes, I suppose I can't suspend you anymore. Pity," she teased.

"I'm sure we can think of something if we really put our minds to it. And if nothing else, it's been far too long since you lectured me."

She couldn't resist a smile at that." Don't tempt me. I get the impression you'd enjoy that far too much for your own good."

" I would. The content, not so much. The disciplinary tone of the lecturer, undoubtedly. Those lectures were the closest thing to dirty talk I'll ever hear from you. Unless you want to prove me wrong right now…"

"In your dreams, Boy Wonder," she purred seductively as she crept a hand slowly up his chest.

"I don't see why not then, as quite a few of my dreams have already come true tonight."

She raised an eyebrow. "Isn't that a little cliché?"

"It may be, but it's still the truth."

"You know what I think? I think you're just trying to butter me up."

"Who said _you_ were one of the dreams that came true?" he said impishly.

"Someone should do you a favor and cut out that vile tongue of yours out before it gets you in trouble one of these days."

" Please, go on. I'd like to hear some more about this 'vile tongue' of mine, especially considering you seemed to have a much more favorable opinion of it just a few hours ago."

She felt her cheeks grow hot. "Yes…er…well, it…it wasn't doling out shameless flattery then."

"Yes. It was pretty occupied elsewhere as I recall," he replied, grinning at the memory. She ignored him. "You know, I won't be offended if you want to rest your head on an actual pillow. I'd rather you be comfortable."

"It's not so bad. I only said otherwise to wind you up a little."

"If I wasn't so bloody tired, the prospect of discussing my chest with you would do a fair bit more than merely wind me up a little…" he trailed off, letting his tone imply a great many things.

"I'm not surprised. You don't seem to need much provocation."

"Not where _you're_ concerned. No, it doesn't take much provocation at all."

Suddenly, she remembered something. "By the way, what was that phone call about?"

"Oh…er…it was nothing…really, nothing at all. Wrong number in fact," he said, giving an unconvincing smile. "Waste of time, though—wasn't it? Keeping me from my sleep…and from you, I suppose" he added as though she was an afterthought, instead of the furthest thing from it.

She leaned her head up on her elbow to look at him. "I don't believe you. What was the call about?"

" Fine, it was Robbie."

"Lewis?"

"How many other Robbies do you think there are in my life that would phone at this late hour?" he pointed out.

"I'm sorry. It's just…I didn't know you two were still talking. But that's silly. Of course, you are. How could you not be? The two of you were practically family."

Hathaway nodded. "Yeah, he's the closest thing I have to a real father, and there's no one whose opinion I value more."

"So what did Lewis want?"

James hesitated before continuing. "He said he's had this strong inexplicable sense that won't go away that I'm in serious danger of doing something very stupid. He doesn't know what exactly, so he wanted to warn me to think through all my decisions carefully."

She lay her head back down and drummed her fingers slightly anxiously on his chest. "He's a little late—isn't he?"

"I don't think so. I've done something impulsive, I've done something unexpected, I've done some_one_ wonderful." This last remark earned him a surprisingly-painful pinch on the stomach. "But no, I don't recall doing anything or anyone particularly stupid."

She stared up at him. If Hathaway was willing to discount the advice of arguably the most-important person in his life, he really must be far more serious about her than she'd thought. "But still, you have to admit he has a point."

Hathaway grabbed her hand off his chest and held it in his. "Does he? I don't think there's anything stupid about being with you. I _want _to be with you; I have for a very, very long time. And now that…now that things are different and there's a chance I can be … well, you can't blame me for wanting to take that chance anyway. Just because it's a risk that doesn't automatically make it 'stupid' as well."

Then, he bent down and gave her another kiss—slow, sensual, sincere, and the furthest thing from "stupid" imaginable. When he finally broke it off, he spoke again. "You're going to hate me for asking, but..."

"Then, why are you doing it?" Hathaway merely smirked back at her. "Never mind, I shouldn't have asked. You don't need a good reason to be ornery. Get on with it, then."

He gently traced the contours of her face with his fingers. "Well, ma'am…you, me…tonight…. Good result?"

She scowled. "You know, I really ought to smack you for that."

"But you won't…"

"No, I won't," she conceded.

"And why is that? Can it be you find my facetiousness endearing? Or do you agree with me that it was a good result?"

"Both." Her instinctual answer surprised her a little, but she knew the moment she said it that it was the truth.


End file.
